


The Bartleby Years

by mentosmorii



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Adventures in therapy, Boarding School, F/F, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, artemis' peers finding out he's not sullen he's just a bit weird: a saga, minor language, non-linear chapters, school sponsored dances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-03-29 16:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19023391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mentosmorii/pseuds/mentosmorii
Summary: A series of drabbles following Artemis during his more mundane adventures as a teenager. Although the main series alluded to his time at Saint Bart's, such as the left-foot Fowl debacle, Dean Guiney being a mediocre head of school, Dr. Po's unsuccessful attempts to get Artemis to open up, and term reports, these chapters attempt to fill in the blanks.





	1. A slow sort

Sean McElhinney leaned his chair back, pushing carefully against the ground as to make the front two legs leave the ground without actually being in danger of tipping the whole thing over.  Pretending to stretch, he glanced nonchalantly at the desks around him. Those who hadn’t yet received their midterm calculus test results were white-knuckling their desks or bouncing their leg. Those who _had_ received their results were turning various shades of red — although from shame or from crossness, Sean did not know.

What he did know, however, was that he’d received a 95 as his mark. Pointedly, he set the exam down on his desk with the note facing up, clearly visible.

Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he gave an inquisitive tilt of his head to Ryan. Ryan gave him a dirty look, crossing his arms over his paper.

“Well?”

“I got a goddamn C- on the thing,” Ryan sighed, his cheeks turning ruddy. “Piss off.”

“Ouch,” Sean tried to wince, nudging his exam even closer towards the center of his desk.

“Bite me, Sean,” Ryan grimaced. At that, Sean dropped the pretense of sympathy, grinning openly.

“What part was it? The one that did you in, that is,” Sean pressed him, wiggling his eyebrows conspiratorially. Ryan moved to whack him, but Sean moved his chair back to its original position, laughing. “ _Oh_ , I’ll bet it was the solids of rotation bit on the calculator portion—”

“If you don’t shut up about integrals and volume or whatever, I’m going to be sick all over your stupid test.”

“Were I a betting man, Mr. McElhinney, I would reckon your friend is being serious about the being-sick-all-over-your-exam business.”

Ryan flushed, moving to cover ever more of his exam, and Sean flinched, surprised.

The two boys stared wordlessly at their _uncharacteristically_ casual classmate. An extraordinarily reserved individual, Artemis Fowl II’s version of casual did not align with most people’s. Nevertheless, casual was the word that best described his posture. He was resting his chin on his hand, perching his elbow upon the desk. His face, usually guarded and impenetrable, was relaxed. Although not committed enough to his and Ryan’s spat to have his expression described as curious, Sean narrowed his eyes slightly, Artemis’ gaze had a note of… amusement. Sean straightened in his seat, rubbing nonexistent wrinkles out of his trousers. Yes, he decided, forcing himself not to wrinkle his nose. Fowl practically had a twinkle in his eye.  

“We… were just talking about the test,” Sean quickly offered, faltering slightly.

“ _Sean_ was talking about the test,” Ryan stressed. Sean exhaled through his nose, giving Ryan a look. Ryan ignored him.

“I’d gathered. You were being rather loud about it.”

“Is that your excuse for nosiness?” Sean jutted out his chin. “It was a _private_ conversation. But I guess I do have to ask, Fowl — does it _seriously_ take Ryan bombing the midterm for you to act halfway sociable —“

“I didn’t _bomb_ the thing,” Ryan interjected, holding up his hands in protest. “It was a C, you prick.”

“C _minus_ ,” Sean said under his breath, rolling his eyes. Ryan scowled, smacking Sean upside the head.

Losing interest, Artemis turned his attention away from Sean and Ryan, opening his phone. “My disposition has nothing to do with anything that transpired inside this school, I can assure you.”

Sean froze, ignoring Ryan’s persistent flicks to his shoulder. He’d already bored Fowl. Wracking his brain, he tried to think of _something_ of interest to say.

Triumphantly, he opened his mouth. “So you don’t care about school, then?”

Almost immediately, he cringed.

Artemis didn’t miss a beat, however, never pausing from his task of tapping away at his smartphone. “Now _that’s_ a rather uncharitable interpretation of what I said.”

Sean supposed he had to stick to his guns. “You’re the one who implied it.”

“If that will make you happy, then I suppose you may continue believing that. All that I meant to imply was that these exercises in memorization matter far less than you’d like to believe, Mr. McElhinney, particularly considering that you’re one of the few who thrive in that structure.”

“One of the few?” Sean’s ears perked up at that. “Are you telling me that _you_ fai-“

In a fluid movement, Artemis discretely flipped the corner of his paper up, revealing the neatly written “100” at the top. Noticing that Sean deflated at the sight of the grade, Artemis shot him an almost toothy grin. His canines peaked out slightly, glinting.

“A valiant effort, Mr. McElhinney.”

With that, Artemis went back to typing. Flushing, Sean ignored the sound of Ryan snorting in derision behind him.

“Is _Mr_. 95 embarrassed?” Ryan leaned over his desk in order to whisper in Sean’s ear, cooing. Sean gritted his teeth, shrinking in his seat.

He flipped his test over, concealing the mark at the top.

* * *

Saint Bartleby’s was one of the few institutions in Ireland that still had class rankings, despite all the studies showing the practice’s impact upon both student self-esteem and performance. Sean McElhinney’s primary school had also been one of the few schools that still ranked students by performance each term, and he’d quite enjoyed the practice until he had graduated to Saint Bart’s.

Sean was bright. He naturally had a knack for memorization. He was neither left nor right brained — his teachers spoke highly of his ability across departments. Sean was used to school being a game that was _very_ easy to be the best at, and as such, he’d never had to struggle to be recognized as special.

What he wasn’t, though, was a genius.

On his first day of secondary school at Saint Bart’s, he’d been seated next to Artemis Fowl II. He hadn’t thought much of the other boy other than he was the most sullen child he’d ever seen, and Artemis did nothing to challenge Sean’s perception of him. The quarter had flown by, and when he’d run to check the class ranking on the last day of the grading period, his eyes had flown to the first place. He’d stared, furrowing his brow.

Slowly, his eyes dropped down the list, not quite processing what he was seeing.

Sean McElhinney, second in the grade. His eyes ticked back upwards. Artemis Fowl II, first in the grade.

Sean had told himself it was by a mere margin, but in second place he would remain for the next three years.

He remembered reading a passage from Alice in Wonderland for English one night, the lines under his eyes deepening and a feeling of displeasure coiling around his gut as he slogged his way through the page.

(“‘Well, in our country,’ said Alice, still panting a little, ‘you'd generally get to somewhere else—if you run very fast for a long time, as we've been doing.’

‘A slow sort of country!" said the Queen. ‘Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!’”)

He’d traced the words, eyes widening. Pushing the thing away from himself as though he’d been burned, Sean had felt tears of frustration and exhaustion prick at his eyes. It _wasn’t fair_ . It wasn’t fair that it took all the running he could do just to stay in _second_ place, behind Fowl — just like the Red Queen, he’d have to run twice as fast as his absolute best in order to dream of ever overtaking the other boy.

Sean McElhinney, second in the grade.

Gnashing his teeth, he flicked off his light, hearing his roommate stir slightly at the change in the environment.

He was going to bed, first place be damned.

* * *

The Saint Bartleby campus was covered in sprawling, vibrant greenery. In between the palatial stone buildings that made up the boarding school, the lush grass always managed to stay ahead of the groundskeeper’s punishing landscaping schedule. If it were a nice day (which is to say, not pouring rain), one could spot groups of students sequestered off under the shade of the oak and willow trees that dotted the campus — despite Dean Guiney’s emails about the matter, it was common to see some of the girls from Our Lady’s School for Young Gentlewomen milling about amongst the Saint Bart’s students.

Surveying the vast lawn before him, Sean lugged his canvas bag as he made his way to a spot where he could eat lunch in peace. He didn’t have the time to shoot the breeze in the name of politeness; he had calculus review to do.  

Ignoring the group of boys by the patch of rosy primulas near the underclassmen’s dorms, he tramped across the lawn towards the more secluded portion of campus. It was a soft day, with the clouds coming down to drape along the surrounding hills. It was hard to describe to someone who’d never experienced the weather. Sean supposed it was a type of rain, yet the droplets in question seemed to hang suspended in the air, too heavy to be mere mist, too airy to be a fog. Stepping outside was deceptive, as you could easily mistake the wetness for crispness in the air. Still, you’d soon be righted of your mistake once you all of the sudden found yourself as soggy as if you’d been dunked in the lough.

Ignoring the chill that was setting in, Sean continued towards the willow that was beginning to peak through the dull haze of the afternoon air. It was his favorite — one of the Salix babylonicas. Its thin, drooping leaves reached the ground, creating a sanctum near the base of the tree where one was concealed from the gaze from most passerby. Gently, he parted the leaves to make an opening to step through, but he stepped back.

The babylonica apparently already had an occupant.

He found himself eye-to-eye with Fowl. The pale teen had been in the middle of jotting down notes upon a piece of paper, and Sean was able to spy the sight of weird, spidery symbols before Artemis swiftly closed the notebook.

Filing the strangeness of the incident away for future contemplation, Sean decided to get right to business. “You’re in my study area.”

Artemis quirked an eyebrow upwards, continuing to put his notes away. “Strange. I thought it belonged to the school.”

“I pay tuition, so I’d say I have just as much a claim to it as the Dean does.”

“I pay tuition as well,” Artemis reminded him.

“Yeah, _reduced_. I know Guiney’s scared shitless of you transferring —I heard from one of the teachers you were offered a scholarship package as an incentive for finishing your secondary education here.”

“I’m the subject of gossip?” Artemis laughed, intrigued.

Sean looked at him, trying to gauge if the other boy was joking. “Oh, you have _no_ idea how much gossip you’re the subject of,” he said dismissively, trying to carefully look at Artemis to discern any concern. If anything, the idea seemed positively hilarious to Artemis.

“You’re not bothered?” he wheedled. “Come on, surely it bugs you _a little._ ”

Artemis hesitated. Sean, spurred on by getting a reaction, continued to press the matter.  “Well, _Declan_ was—”

“I don’t believe there is a single thing in the rumor mill that could trouble me,” Artemis decided. Swallowing a frown, Sean attempted to keep his expression under control. “In all likelihood, I’ve done far worse in far more imaginative ways.”

Sean scrunched up his nose. “What?”

“Enjoy the willow, McElhinney,” Artemis announced brightly, gathering his bags.

Parting the willow, Fowl stepped out onto campus, leaving Sean alone.

Shite, Sean thought glumly.  For all his wits and wealth, Artemis Fowl II still fell neatly within the category of being one of the weird blokes at school. For Fowl to pitying him, Sean would have to be in a sorry state indeed.

Poking his head out through the curtain of leaves, he scanned the lawn. The wind blowing between the buildings almost made a moaning sound that reverberated low and deep about Saint Bartleby’s. The soft day had morphed into a heady, fog adorned evening.

Despite the white haze over the campus, Fowl was nowhere in eyesight. The leaves on the willow shivered, and Sean felt a chill creep up his spine.

Kicking up clumps of dirt as he skulked back to the dorms, Sean didn’t look back.  


	2. Nice to meet you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess the easiest way to describe debs is like. Irish prom but different? People spend similar amounts on dressing up/limo renting, but whereas people drink *after* prom or sneak alcohol in because the drinking age is 21, if you're at your debs, you're legally allowed to drink. Obviously you can't get out of control or anything, but you'd be able to buy drinks from whatever venue you're at usually. The venue can be in the ballroom of a hotel or something along those lines, and people do get dolled up since iirc, there aren't any big dances you'd experience in secondary school — it happens in sixth yearish when people are 17-19, and sometimes people also set up preDebs, which are also dances, but at more nightclub-y scenes. Debs also tends to go a bit later than prom, whereas at prom, it ends at like ~10ish and then you go to an afterparty usually or w/e. With that out of the way — the chapter!

Manning the debs was Ms. Orla Grace’s least favorite part of working at Saint Bartleby’s. The younger teachers always got shoved with the duty of making sure nothing too improper happened at the school-run portion of the night — she didn’t know how to make it clear to Guiney that no matter how much he interspersed the dance’s playlist with that one depressing Simon and Garfunkel song, his best bet at getting the night to go smoothly was simply kicking the students out at 12. 

After months of planning, permission slips sent home to parents, and strongly worded letters to the Sixth Year boys about being on their best behavior, the night was finally here. The school had rented out the Tulfarris hotel’s ballroom for the night, and Orla would never have guessed it were a debs had she stumbled upon the dance accidentally. She’d thought her own had been posh when she’d first heard her debs was going to be held in one of the Cavan Crystal Hotel conference suites, but this? Orla looked at the white tablecloths with cream-coloured silk napkins, the glimmering Swarovski crystal chandelier that had been wheeled out just for tonight, and the decorated chairs arranged at each table in the banqueting suite. 

Her debs had been posh, she sighed, but Saint Bartleby’s was a gold-encrusted nightmare. 

Looking away from the students milling into the room, she poured herself a spoonful of the punch. Taking a sip, she smiled into the cup. Fruity ginger ale in a paper cup. That was at least reminiscent of her debs — junky non-alcoholic beverage options were a unifying element to the end of year dance, she supposed. Of course, the drinks at her table weren’t labeled Cidona, or 7-Up, or Club Orange. Saint Bartleby’s official list of food and drink for the night all listed the beverages on Orla’s table as belonging to some organic, chichi alternative to the aforementioned soft drinks. Still, Orla knew cheap ginger ale and juice concentrate when she tasted it — ignorance was bliss, and she wasn’t about to tell the parents that their precious sons had been given regular-person soda. 

Glancing back towards the door, she caught a glimpse of slicked-back dark hair against near-pallid, pale skin through the gaps between a group of boys chatting as they walked in. 

Orla pushed off from leaning against the non-alcoholic drink table, grimacing. Hopefully, her star English pupil would do her a final favor and remain far, far away from her until the Guiney forced everyone out for the night.

She took another sip of her drink. 

“Ah, Ms. Grace,” she heard a clipped, soft voice announce. “A pleasant surprise. I was not aware you were one of the teachers running the night.”

Nearly crumpling the small cup in her hand, she forced herself to give the young man standing across from her a tight smile. 

“Artemis,” she said, slightly through her teeth. “I wasn’t aware you were attending tonight’s dance.”

He sighed, expression a tad sheepish. “It’s not exactly my typical scene, I know. However,” he motioned behind himself, a tall, blonde young woman stepping out from the sea of faces. “My… friend wished to experience the night due to missing out on her own debs.”

Orla wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed the woman walk in with Artemis. She was remarkably tall — almost 2 meters tall, in fact — and almost the opposite of her shorter companion in every way. 

At a loss for words, Orla floundered, eyes flicking between Artemis, then to his companion, and then back to Artemis. The young woman laughed and placed a well-manicured hand on the teen’s shoulder, causing the golden bangles on her wrist to jingle. 

“Hi — you’re the English teacher, right?” she checked, looking at Artemis for confirmation. He huffed, waving her hand off his shoulder. 

“Er… yes?”

“Great! He said you were one of the decent ones,” Juliet gave Artemis a final hearty clap on the shoulder, straightening to face Orla head on. 

“Hm?” Orla started, looking at Artemis. He was pointedly not making eye contact, pretending instead to scan the crowd for someone or other. 

“That’s… nice. He was a  _ delight _ to have in class, weren’t you, Artemis?” Orla pressed. Artemis looked back at the two of them, pausing. 

“I suppose I would say that, Ms. Grace, thank you,” he nodded, waving a hand noncommittally. 

She smiled at him indulgently, the movement not quite reaching her eyes. She couldn’t for the life of her guess why Guiney hadn’t simply bit the bullet and let Artemis graduate years ago — sure, he brought the school’s test scores up, but  _ gods _ , was he a terror to have as a student. Although the only time when she would have described him as malicious was the difficult months following the presumed death of his father, Artemis was, at his core, someone who delighted in running intellectual circles around others. She knew when he raised his hand during lectures that he was bound to confuse the other boys. The number of lectures that he’d derailed during the Hamlet unit was unholy. 

“You’re  _ very _ welcome, Artemis,” she sighed. The three stood in silence, the clamor of the dance diffusing a bit of the awkwardness. “I don’t mean to be  _ rude _ , miss, but are you one of the Our Lady’s girls—?”

The young woman looked puzzled and Artemis, surprised, laughed. “Oh, Christ,  _ no _ — Juliet’s a bit too old, I’m afraid.”

Juliet smiled, stepping on his foot with her high heel. Artemis made a face, then realization dawned on him. “ _ Oh _ , not  _ old _ -old.”

“Gee,  _ thanks _ , Artemis,” Juliet put a hand to her heart in exaggerated gratitude.

The more she listened, Orla marveled, the less she understood about the arrangement between the two in front of her. 

“Well then,  _ Juliet _ , I was just…  _ curious _ , you see, because I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around,” Orla simpered, gesturing with her free hand. 

“You would remember if you’d ever talked to Juliet before,” Artemis said, looking at Juliet with a hint of mirth in his eyes. She grinned back at him.

“Ms. Grace, could you abandon your station for a moment and help me with the —“ 

Spotting the pair standing near Orla, the approaching young woman froze.

Hanna Kelly was one of the  _ new _ teachers, Orla mentally clucked her tongue. Orla wouldn’t consider herself old by any definition, but Hanna was the youngest of all the teachers at the school. Orla was, at the most, ten or so years older than her coworker, but the last few years of dealing with Artemis had led to the beginning of aging lines cropping up under her eyes and near her nose. Hanna hadn’t had enough time on the job to become as worn down, and it showed in the brightness in her eyes; in the bounce in her step; in the healthy glow about her that she always seemed to have.

Hanna had come straight over from her uni teaching programme in Britain to employment at Saint Bart’s. She was bright, definitely. But she’d need to grow a backbone sooner than later if she was going to survive her first year at Saint Bart’s. Even now, the Latin teacher resembled a deer in the headlights. Orla had to stop herself from letting out a beleaguered sigh.

However, Juliet lit up at the sight of the new arrival, gesturing for the petite woman to come over. “Hanna, it’s been  _ ages _ , I haven’t seen you since the preDebs back in November!” 

Hanna shot a glance at Orla and Artemis, smiling nervously. “It’s been a bit, yes. Um, it’s nice to see you again, Jules — Juliet! Er, Ms. Butler?” she finished weakly.

“PreDebs,” Orla echoed, voice flat. She’d been aware that the school had allowed for a preDebs in the hopes that tonight wouldn’t get too rowdy, but she’d made it clear that she wanted no part in chaperoning a damn  _ nightclub _ outing. How Ms. Kelly had gotten looped into working that night, Orla had no clue. The poor woman had probably been bullied into working that dance by the administration, honestly.

Juliet nodded, resting a hand on her waist. The motion made the pale green silk chiffon of her dress sway. Perhaps it was the grace of the action that made Orla notice, but her eyebrows raised slightly as she noticed the firmness of the young woman’s shoulders and arms. Orla got the feeling that Juliet would’ve been able to knock the security guard they’d hired for the night flat on his back — and somehow manage to look demure while doing it, too. 

“And you three met up that night, I gather?” Orla prompted, forcing herself to tear her eyes away from Juliet’s biceps. 

“I only met Hanna,” Juliet laughed. At that, both Artemis and Hanna looked stricken, although in different ways. 

“Juliet,  _ please _ ,” Artemis groaned. Hanna seemed as though she was about to bolt any minute, Orla noted, a warm flush painting the young woman’s brown skin. 

“Don’t be a baby, Arty,” she rolled her eyes, and he spluttered. “Let’s go say hi to someone — I didn’t get to see any of your classmates at the preDebs.”

Juliet caught Artemis by the crook of his elbow, gently pulling him away from Orla’s table. Juliet flashed Orla a dazzling grin before shooting a quick wink at Hanna, and then the strange duo was off. 

Shaking her head as if waking up from a dream, Orla blinked, trying to hear over the din. 

“Who—“

“She’s the sister of Artemis’ bodyguard,” Hanna provided a bit too quickly.

Orla’s mouth formed an ‘O’. “I see,” she said carefully.

“Got back recently from doing a stint with a wrestling circuit in the States, too.”

“Cheers to her, then.”

“Yup,” Hanna exhaled, popping the ‘p’ at the end of her sentence. “I’ve seen a few of her televised matches. You’d like them — er, you’d like them if you… like wrestling, that is,” she finished meekly, tucking one of the micro braids that had fallen free from her updo behind her ear. “Do…you like wrestling?”

“No,” Orla furrowed her brow. “Why would I like  _ wrestling? What—  _ Hanna.”

Hanna seemed to wilt under Orla’s intense gaze. 

“Yes…?”

“I’m going to need you to be frank with me,” she said bluntly, and the young woman nodded miserably. “Did you… have _relations_ with someone tied to _the_ _most_ disagreeable student I’ve ever had the misfortune of having to endure?”

Hanna tugged at the collar of her olive blouse. “Potentially.”

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Orla screwed her eyes shut. Regaining her composure, she opened them again, reaching to grasp Hanna’s shoulder. “Please don’t let your dalliance with that woman lead to Artemis Fowl stepping foot on campus after graduation.”

Hanna spluttered, holding a hand up over her mouth in embarrassment. “Orla!”

“It’ll kill me, Hanna,” Orla insisted, weary. “I’d better not see him  _ anywhere _ near my classroom  _ ever _ again.”

Jutting her chin out, Hanna gave the older woman a defiant look. “I’m not making any promises.”

“Oh,  _ Hanna —  _ fine! I’m leaving you to man the alcohol-free table, then,” Orla threw up her hands, stalking off. Ignoring Hanna’s protests, she made her way towards the banquet room. 

She’d been  _ so _ close to getting rid of Artemis Fowl.

There wasn’t nearly enough alcohol in this damn ball to drown her sorrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know those stories titled stuff like, "so sweet! This student took their older relative who missed out on prom to their dance!" 
> 
> that's juliet tagging along as Artemis' bodyguard for debs, except she disappears at different points in time over the night to go rogue. 
> 
> OKAY so the title of the fic/the bit where Juliet goes “I only met Hanna," and it embarrasses like. everyone involved? I really don't know the origin of the slang, but 2000-2010 Dublin/Liverpool/assorted weird parts of the UK, 'to meet' someone was slang for making out with someone. I'm not sure if anyone in their teens still uses it in conversation but! that is the explanation of my terrible, one sentence joke


	3. Out in the fields

Wicklow has often been referred to as the garden of Ireland. The founder of St. Bartleby’s had assumed that the sprawling landscapes and fresh air would do the young gentlemen of Ireland’s high society some good — and he wasn’t wholly wrong. There was certainly a great deal less trouble to get into in the middle of a field than there was in the more populated towns.

However, those who are determined to find trouble will inevitably make do, and such is the case on this night, with the overcast spring sky providing ample opportunity to lurk if one so desires. And, let it be said, Jack Lovett was nothing if not a professional troublemaker, in the unfortunate way that sheltered rich teenagers are. 

It is true that Wicklow is the garden of Ireland, but even so, there are a splattering of abandoned lots and crumbling alleys. Tonight, Jack had picked out one of the abandoned car parks that he’d evaluated to be the best of the lots, and he currently had parked himself on top of a stack of old wooden crates. His adventuring partner for the night, a first-year university student he’d met at a rather bad concert back in the autumn, was none too happy with their predicament. 

However, they’d already argued about the risk factor of skulking about in empty lots on the way over, and both thought it best to save some energy for arguing about the activity later into the night. 

There isn’t much to do in Wicklow if you’re a private school student.

***

 

Jack flicked his lighter on and off, admiring the way it spat out sparks.

“You’re going to break that,” his companion sighed, their mouth pulled into a disapproving, thin line.

Rolling his eyes, Jack made a show of flicking the lighter shut before shoving it in his blazer’s pocket. 

Ozzy smiled, leaning their weight against the almost-slick bricks of the old building. “Thanks.”

Scoffing, Jack drummed his fingers against box he was sitting, the noise making a slight echo. After a moment, he looked back at Ozzy. They raised an eyebrow, and he took that as an invitation.

“What do you want to do?” 

“What do I want to do?” they snorted. “You’re the one who wanted to poke around weird holes in the wall.”

“It’s not like there would’ve been anything to do on campus,” he said, frowning defensively.

“ _ So _ you should’ve come up to Dublin instead of making me take a taxi down here.”

“Yeah, true, Ozzy,” Jack admitted. “Ozzy — what’s your name from, anyway?” he asked, swinging his legs lazily from his perch.

Ozzy shrugged. “Poem.”

“What?” he furrowed his brow. “I thought the name was from that rocker bloke.”

“Why’d you even ask, then?”

“Dunno. Although I do admit it seemed like a weird choice and all, considering you don’t even listen to heavy metal. ”

“Well, there you go. That’s a bit stupid.”

“Eh, can’t win ‘em all.”

“Fair,” Ozzy exhaled, rolling their shoulders as they gazed out towards the empty car park. “The story I have isn’t that interesting, to be honest.”

Jack shot them a look. “We’re lurking in an abandoned lot so that I can smoke without one of the head boys giving me grief about cigs. Please, regale me with your poem.”

“Prick.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Fine. It’s basically about the narrator meeting a traveler from a faraway land, and they talk about there being this  _ huge _ statue of the king Ozymandias out in the desert. The king had it engraved to say things such as that he was ‘the king of kings’ and that his enemies should fear even the sight of one of his monuments. All real braggadocio-type shit. But here’s the thing — the statue is the only thing that remains in that desert since his kingdom is now in ruins. It’s about arrogance and hubris. I can text it to you.”

“Huh,” Jack took a puff from what remained of his cigarette. At this point, the thing was almost only the orange filtration zone. Not that that gave him pause, though. “Cool.”

“I liked the themes,” they shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever, even the powerful die eventually, be careful with where you invest in real estate. Basic stuff.”

“Well, I’m gonna read it,” Jack declared, waving his hand. “So I don’t want any more spoilers.” Tiny trails of smoke formed as he gestured, with the mist making the lit end of cigarette splutter and hiss intermittently. 

“It  _ is _ cool. Plus, my name makes whoever is talking to me sound like they’re buzzing.”

“The consonants are wicked, yeah,” Jack agreed, grinning. Ozzy grinned back. 

Suddenly, Jack froze up. “ _ Shit _ ,” He hissed, flicking his cigarette to the ground and hurriedly grinding it into the wet dirt. Jack hopped off the empty boxes, fanning the air unsuccessfully in an attempt to disperse the smell of smoke.

“Do you have any axe in your work bag?” he asked, cursing. 

“It’s a research program. I’m not really doing any heavy physical labor,” Ozzy snorted. “I don’t bring stuff like axe to work. That’d be weird.”

“Whatever,” Jack grimaced, and Ozzy craned their neck to see what he was looking at. 

Across the gloom of the dusky car park, Ozzy could just about see the silhouette of a sleek, black Bentley. One of the older models, probably. They looked at Jack quizzically, taking a step back.

“Jack,” they began slowly. “There’s a car.”

“Yeah,” he said dismissively, still waving at the air. “Got any mints, at least?” he tried, hopeful.

“Dude, there’s a fecking  _ car  _ parked over there,” Ozzy stressed, eyes darting back to Jack. “No one  _ ever _ comes out here. I think we should leg it. Now.”

“’S probably why he drove out here, the creep,” Jack muttered under his breath, moving to riffle through Ozzy’s bag anyway. They squawked, moving to kick his hand away from the bag, but he batted their boot away. 

“Gross. Orange tic tacs?” he looked up, making a face.

Ozzy shoved their hands into their pockets. “They were out of the tea flavored ones.”

Jack rolled his eyes as he crunched on the mints. “You should take one, too.”

“ _ I _ wasn’t smoking.”

“So? It’ll look weird if only one of us has mints. Take some!”

“What? No, it  _ won’t. _ You’re mental — look, do you recognize that car?”

“Unfortunately. My classmate’s bodyguard has one just like it.”

Ozzy boggled. “Your classmate’s… bodyguard’s… car.”

Jack huffed. “Shut up. They’re practically inseparable. And my classmate is always blowing off school to do God knows what, so it adds up that he’d try to invade our car park behind the abandoned Foot Locker.”

“The Foot Locker lot isn’t really ours, though. It’s not really  _ anybody’s _ . That’s a bit of the point of it being our haunt.”

“Yeah,  _ technically _ — we still got here first, though,” Jack sent a glare off into the gloom. “If Butler comes over here and tells me to knock off smoking again, I’m fighting him.”

"His bodyguard's name is _Butler_ — nevermind.  Please don’t get into a fight with someone’s whose  _ job _ is being able to fight.”

“Fight professionally, maybe. I never learned karate or that MMA type stuff. I learned to fight on the streets. We’ve the advantage here.”

“There… is nothing going on between your ears. Just empty air, blowing around your thick skull,” Ozzy decided, finally cautiously taking a step closer to look at the car.

“Piss off.”

“You piss off,” they muttered back, poking their head around the rusting dumpster. 

That was apparently a mistake, as they found themselves making eye-contact with the gigantic man stepping out of the driver’s seat of the Bentley. He was incredibly still, like the calm ocean — barely tamed strength that had been forced into a moment of inertia.

Slowly, they felt themself raise up a hand in a small wave. 

“Why are you interacting with them?” they heard Jack splutter from behind them. 

“They already saw us,” Ozzy said, voice low. 

The passenger door to the car swung up and out stepped another figure. He was pale enough that he seemed to glow a bit under the busted streetlight, and he was dressed in a smart, black suit. He must be the classmate, then, Ozzy decided, gaze flickering between the two. He didn’t seem like any secondary schooler they’d ever seen — but money was wont to have a funny effect on teenagers who’d never known its absence. For Jack, it’d convinced him that the world was a lot smaller and a great deal more simple than it truly was. For this other fellow, Ozzy frowned, it had seemed to do the opposite. He had the gait and demeanor of someone who knew the world was all too willing to knock him down, and he had thus decided to steel himself against any future threats preemptively. 

Jack had been exaggerating their rivalry. Ozzy was sure of that. 

If his classmate had seen Jack as anything more aggravating than a nuisance, it was more than likely that one day, Jack would have simply stopped showing up at the lot to hang out. In fact, it was more than likely that Ozzy would have stopped seeing Jack altogether. 

Feeling a presence at their side, Ozzy turned to face Jack, who was lingering nearby. He grimaced, slinging their bag over his shoulder. 

“If they’re already seen us, then sprinting off will look suspicious,” he explained, hoisting the bag higher. Ozzy shot him a withering look.

“I thought you  _ wanted _ to fight his bodyguard, Jack. Are you telling me you’re afraid that what, we’ll get chased?”

“Uh, yes, actually?” Jack said slowly, as though explaining something to an infant. “Neither of them understand the concept of fun.”

Their petty squabbling petered out as the two people from the car made their way over. 

“Artemis,” Jack said, pursing his lips at the dark-haired young man. 

Ozzy made a note of that, furrowing their brow. Artemis. Interesting. 

“Hello, Jack. I must say, it’s a bit of surprise to see you out here,” Artemis remarked, tone light. Turning to face Ozzy, he appraised them.

“I’m Ozzy,” they offered.

“I don’t believe I’ve met your acquaintance before, Ozzy,” Artemis quirked his head, extending a hand in greeting. 

“You’ve definitely never met,” Jack confirmed, tone somewhat brusque. “They’re a fresher at Trinity.”

Shaking Artemis’ hand, Ozzy harrumphed. “I can introduce myself, thanks. But no, we wouldn’t have met before, I don’t think.”

“Trinity?” Artemis smiled, nodding approvingly. “I gave a lecture on Balkan politics there.”

“Really? Maybe one of my friends saw it. When was it?”

Artemis waved a hand. “I was thirteen. It was some time ago.”

“Oh,” Ozzy blinked. “Good for you.”

“Quite. I must say that you’ve piqued my interest with Trinity. If I might ask: what is your focus on?”

“Classics,” Jack interjected before Ozzy could respond, puffing up slightly with pride at the mention of his friend’s work. “They’re beyond smart. Actually, you should tell Artemis about some of your papers, Ozzy. Lethal stuff.”

“Maybe some other time,” Butler announced, his voice firm, and he looked at his employer pointedly. Artemis must have picked up on whatever he was implying, as the pale young man nodded apologetically.

“I’m afraid it is time for us to part ways with you two,” Artemis explained.

Jack crossed his arms. 

Ozzy put a firm hand on his shoulder before he could say something. He scowled at the strange duo in front of them but turning to look at Ozzy, his face softened.

“Enjoy your stupid car park,” Jack muttered, allowing Ozzy to maneuver them both back towards the path that led to the main foot road. He was no doubt thinking he’d got the last word in, Ozzy sighed mentally. 

“Don’t think I didn’t see you smoking when we pulled into the lot, Jack Lovett,” Ozzy heard Butler call after the two of them from out in the gloom. They winced, continuing to push Jack forward. 

“He’s threatened to tell my mum a few times, “ Jack remarked miserably, no doubt disappointed at his grand exit being ruined. “He knows her from some damn book club group, apparently.”

Ozzy laughed, and he gave them a hurt look. 

“I’m living like a hunted man, you know! It’s not funny, Ozzy,” he sulked, and they shook their head fondly.

“You really ought to quit, Jack,” they sighed, inhaling the cool night air. It smelled vaguely of roses, with the pungent smell of tobacco beginning to fade as they walked farther and farther from the lot. It was always worth coming down from Central Dublin to visit Jack in Wicklow, they shot him a glance. Despite how much Jack might complain that St. Bartleby’s was located in the middle of absolute nowhere, Ozzy knew that deep down, he liked being away from the city. Not that Dublin was in any way as busy as some of the cities they’d seen back in London, Ozzy conceded. But even Dublin was too much for someone like Jack. He needed growing room, even at the precipice of adulthood. 

“Hm. I might,” Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets. 

“ _ Jack _ .”

“No, I really think I might! It’s getting to the point where my mum would realize when I come home for the holidays, and the last thing I want is to get chewed out for using ‘her money to buy cigs when I should be learning’,” he pitched his voice into a breathy falsetto at the end.

Ozzy chuckled. “You’ve already gotten caught, then.”

“Mum found a few I’d stuffed in my bag when I came home for Christmas. You should’ve seen her — she was huffing and red in the face for about an hour. I really got the business for that.”

“Good. Your dumbass should have realized that bringing cigs home was a monumentally stupid idea.”

“You’re mean tonight, you know that, Ozzy?” Jack grinned widely, shaking his head and knocking his shoulder into theirs.

“Whatever,” Ozzy rolled their eyes. Slowing slightly in their stride, they glanced backward, eyes narrowing to try to make out the silhouettes of Artemis and Butler.

“It… is a bit weird, you know,” they began, voice faltering. “That those two were at the car park.”

Jack snorted. “Weird is on brand for Artemis. Besides, he wasn’t there for the car park, probably.”

“What?”

“You’d never guess it if you’d just met him, but he’s bonkers for all that like….,” Jack made a vague gesture with his hands. “Ancient aliens type shite. At least, he used to be when we were roommates. He’s gotten more normal since he was 10, but you never know, y’know?”

Ozzy stared at him, stopping in their tracks. “So that’s… a haunted car park, then?”

“Good idea for a band name — ‘haunted car park’,” Jack extended his arm, pantomiming putting it up across a poster. “But no, more like haunted hillfort.”

“There are fairy mounds in the parking lot?”

“Sometimes I forget you’re painfully British. Yeah, there are a bunch all over Wicklow. There’s one in the field behind the car park, but it’s so small you’d never see it on a touristy type guide.”

“Huh,” Ozzy said thoughtfully, looking out at the dimly lit concrete island. 

“Huh?”

“Just ‘huh’,” Ozzy confirmed, turning back to continue walking.

Jack shrugged. “Fine by me.”


	4. Minds and matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little older and wiser, Artemis meets with Dr. Po again. Heads up for discussion of mental illness — nothing too much, but still a bit heavier than past chapters. Next chapter is Dean Guiney, which will be much lighter.

It was a bit dishearteningto spend years working towards an MA in psychology, only to then use it on hour-long glorified eye-staring contests with the moody adolescents of the UK’s _Vieux riches._  His job paid well, though, and as such Dr. Po was willing to grit his teeth and soldier on through each meeting on his list.

He’d had plenty of patients who came to him determined not to progress. These were the boys who had a few too many write-ups on their files; the ones whose families were tired of their son being too 'emotionally high-maintenance'; the students who had consigned themselves to being the ‘troubled’ kid. The problem with elite boarding schools is that they sometimes served as dumping grounds for wealthy families who would prefer to not be reminded of their screw-up children, and as such, Dr. Po’s target demographic was made up of boys determined to ‘win’ therapy by going home just as bitter and in pain as they were when they started sessions with him.

He didn’t always make a breakthrough. Sometimes, he had patients who showed up to a session with a note from Dean Guiney or from a parent excusing them from further meetings, and that was that. Dr. Po firmly believed that every single student he’d met with was capable of finding some coping mechanism or outlet that would help them — and he hoped that the students whose sessions stopped before any progress had been made found happiness in the future. Or, at the very least, that they found something that would bring them peace.

There were certain patients he’d had that stood out from the others, both for good reasons and bad. Artemis Fowl II was one of those patients — and standing out for reasons ‘both good and bad’ described Artemis perfectly. Following a series of disastrous sessions when the boy was thirteen, Dr. Po had simply stopped seeing Artemis. The boy hadn’t even shown up with a note terminating their sessions during a final meeting. One day, a new boy had shown up in the time slot usually reserved for Artemis, and that had been that. Dr. Po hadn’t seen the boy since. He vaguely remembered hearing the news that the Fowl patriarch had been found — _alive —_ and not been sure whether to expect Artemis to get better or worse. Would the return of his father foster the growth of the nascent emotional maturity that Artemis had exhibited in their final sessions? Or would Artemis’ worst traits — his tendency towards arrogance, his dismissal of others, his budding narcissism — firmly take root, defining Artemis’ personality for good? These questions nagged at Dr. Po, and truthfully, he was too cowardly to ask around the staff to confirm just what sort of person Artemis had become.

And so Artemis remained an enigma.

An enigma that just so happened to be sitting in the armchair across from Dr. Po, boring a hole through the doctor with his unflinching gaze.

In true Artemis Fowl fashion, the boy had shown up for a session that had been reserved without a name. Dr. Po had nearly dropped his clipboard when he’d opened the door to usher in his new patient and been greeted with a now fifteen years of age Artemis Fowl standing before him, looking simultaneously defiant and sheepish.

They’d both walked into the room wordlessly, waiting in silence as Dr. Po awkwardly rummaged around in his desk for his old notes on Artemis while the young teen sat gingerly in the patient seat in the middle of the room.

“You’ve not switched to a digital filing system?”

Dr. Po started, looking up at Artemis.

“No psychiatrist or counselor uses iPads or digital notetakers,” Dr. Po explained hesitantly, brow furrowing.

Artemis wasn’t one for small talk, usually.

Shaking his head slightly as if to right himself, Dr. Po continued. “It’d be convenient, but there are concerns about the patient being recorded."

Nodding, Artemis seemed satisfied with the answer.

Flipping his notes closed, Dr. Po studied Artemis, who raised a single brow.

“I’ve never forgotten our session that you left in the middle of,” Dr. Po remarked, and the frown lines on Artemis’ face deepened. “You were such a smarmy child. But you… made this joke.”

Artemis leaned back in his chair, tapping a foot in annoyance. “What a wonderful memory you have.”

“Not really. But it’s hard to forget a patient like you, Artemis,” Dr. Po sighed. “I tried to ask you about your feelings, and you instead told me that I was proud of a family heirloom that was ultimately a forgery.”

The memory caused Artemis to smile genuinely for the first time since he’d stepped into the office. “The fake Victorian?”

The doctor grimaced. “Yes.”

“Despite its lack of authenticity, it was a perfectly nice armchair,” Artemis assured, a gently teasing note worming its way into his voice.

Edged on by Artemis' demeanor softening, Dr. Po pushed on. “But back to the joke. I remarked on the loss of your father — insensitively, I now realize — and you shut down. You started jerking me in this way and that in order to prevent me from getting a real reading on what your… deal is. You said something along the lines of, ‘I’m depressed that I’m going to therapy,’ I believe. Quite a _bon mot.”_

“I was impudent as a young boy, I’m afraid,” Artemis said breezily, sounding more amused by the tale than remorseful. “I hope you’ll forgive me for a poor first impression.”

“Artemis, why are you back in my office?”

Artemis didn’t even blink, taking the challenge in stride. “My mother believes it will be beneficial.”

“Your mother? Not you?”

“Correct.”

“And… beneficial? To what end? Elaborate on her reasoning, perhaps,” Dr. Po asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“She believes I am emotionally maladjusted,” Artemis said, giving a small shrug.

“Are you?”

Artemis blinked owlishly, the question not quite computing. “Am I what, doctor?”

Dr. Po clicked his pen idly. “Unhappy.”

“Of course.”

Dr. Po was unable to keep his face neutral, and Artemis chuckled slightly at the doctor’s wide-eyed gaping.

“O-oh?”

“Dr. Po,” Artemis sighed, sobering as if he were explaining something evident to a child. “Of course I am unhappy occasionally. I’m a very busy man, doctor. My intellect has made it so I’ve moved beyond the carefree days of adolescence — I’ve matured past an age where my mother could treat me as a child, and although I don’t mourn this loss of simpler times, I suppose she does.”

Dr. Po forced himself not to ask if Artemis had ever truly been treated as a child, deciding to steer clear of the topic of family based on how unproductively the discussion had gone years ago. Instead, he elected to place his clipboard on the floor, looking at Artemis bluntly.

“Artemis, I’m not diagnosing you with anything,” he began, holding up a hand when Artemis opened his mouth to say something. “What I want to discuss today, however, is that right now I see the same pain in you today as I did when you were thirteen — and since I’m no longer getting complaints from department heads, that means you’ve taken that frustration and turned it somewhere else.”

Artemis’ lips quirked upwards, but his eyes were mirthless. “You share my mother's theory that I am some variation of the tortured genius stereotype, then.”

“How about this — I think that you believe that there isn’t a person alive smart enough to help you. Because to 'fix' you, someone would have to look inside you, and you think you’re the only person that’s able to understand how you work.”

“How narcissistic of me.”

“I’ve met with a lot of people since our last session when you were thirteen,” Dr. Po stressed. “I’ve not met anyone quite as clever as you, but I’ve met people who fit the same profile. You’re well versed in my profession, so you’re able to view your pain as both a participant and as an outsider — and that strangely voyeuristic relationship to your mind makes it so you and all these other folks think that you’re objective. Logical, even, in your analysis of your mind. You understand every tick, every tiny mechanism, every structure of your psyche. And if you understand it all and you still can’t will yourself to be happy, then why the hell should I be able to do anything for you? After all, I’m just some idiot who decorates his office with forged antique furniture his grandfather was gullible enough to purchase. Why should I know better than you do?”

Artemis was silent at that.

“If someone can, say, convince themselves that all their peers are 2D caricatures of people, they’ll never have to think about why they struggle to feel any pleasure from social interaction. If they can look around and see how far their family has come, then they can force themselves to box up and discard the baggage of the past. If they can convince themselves that pain and genius are twins, that the torment is part of the gift by which they define themselves, then the fear they have that maybe they’re destined for a life marked by paranoia and apathy no longer has to be confronted,” Dr. Po tried, searching for some way to express his thoughts before Artemis decided to snap at him. “Maybe you’re the only one who sees the world as it really is. But maybe your mother is right to be concerned. I get why… that’s an unattractive possibility to you. It would mean your analysis of yourself was incorrect. And if you were wrong, if your mind has tricked you into running away from the change that you need to feel happier, then you’re just as human as the rest of us. Pain tricked you into believing its integral to your ‘youness’. You’re... just human. And let me tell you, Artemis, that feeling ineffectual, and frustrated, and sad is... so very painfully human.”

By the time he’d finished his spiel, Dr. Po’s voice was soft. Pursing his lips, he tried to see if he’d garnered any sort of reaction from Artemis. The teen remained stony-faced.

“I can recommend a therapist from outside Saint Bartleby’s,” Dr. Po finally said. “If you don’t want to work with me, then I don’t want to waste either of our time.”

Artemis seemed to be broiling with unreadable intensity, and for a moment Dr. Po worried that he’d start going on a diatribe, but his fears soon were proven unfounded when all of the sudden, Artemis seemed to deflate.

“I do not choose sadness for myself, Dr. Po. I can assure you that,” Artemis remarked, sounding weary in the way men twice his age did when they were confronted by the prospect of the world having moved on past their prime.

“I would never imply something so insensitive,” Dr. Po insisted. “But there is a difference between me saying something of that sort and me asking you to believe that I could help you. Or if not me, then someone better suited to working with you.”

Artemis ruminated on the statement, his tapered fingers tapping out an unfamiliar rhythm on the arms of the ornate chair he was sitting in.

“I will come to my session next week,” he finally decided, and Dr. Po almost sagged with relief.

Carefully, the two of them continued on with the session. Although it felt as though they were both walking on eggshells around one another, the hour-long session ultimately ended in a place where Dr. Po felt like they could work with. He walked Artemis to the door, and after awkwardly bidding him goodbye, Dr. Po retreated back into his office.

For a while, he simply sat at his desk, thinking.

It wasn’t as though he’d made groundbreaking headway with Artemis today. Frankly, they’d been only nominally productive following Artemis’ promise to give therapy a genuine attempt.

The day stretched on, and Dr. Po was no closer to making sense of the ever-present Artemis conundrum.

After all, how does one describe Artemis Fowl?

Various psychiatrists have tried and failed. The problem is Artemis’ own intelligence. He bamboozles every test thrown at him. He has puzzled the greatest medical minds, and sent many of them gibbering back to their own hospitals.

Dr. Po paused, reaching back for the clipboard he’d discarded at the beginning of the session.

Artemis Fowl II was fifteen. He had various, tremendously important responsibilities, the details of which he refused to elaborate on. His best friend, to Dr. Po’s knowledge, was his paid bodyguard. Frankly, Dr. Po didn’t think they’d talk about Artemis’ family for a long, long time.

Dr. Po couldn’t really describe Artemis Fowl, because he didn’t know him. He didn’t think many people knew the boy, not really.

All the same, Dr. Po wanted to try. He wanted to try to understand Artemis Fowl a bit better. Not because Dr. Po wanted to a hero, but because he wanted Artemis Fowl to just get to be a boy instead of whatever impossible, confusing role Artemis seemed to be trying to fill.

Artemis Fowl was fifteen. Dr. Po hoped that he’d hold onto boyhood a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wHEW lemme just sprinkle in 18 years worth of poorly managed depression and various failed stints in therapy real quick amiright. When I was a kid, I thought the scene where Artemis was in therapy during the Arctic Incident was so cool bc ‘hell yeAH you tell off this loser who’s trying to get in your business about your mental health!! go take control of your fate adults suck lol’ when in reality that was like. Me reacting to my own tendency to get really defensive and weird about people trying to check in about my mental health? That was probably influenced by the fact that I like, tried really, really hard to hold it together and succeed, so when people pointed out that I came across as the equivalent of someone putting a bit of duct tape over a pipe that’s about to burst, I got SO mad. I think about this thing my English teacher told me once: depression is anger turned inwards. And sometimes, that anger and frustration that usually manifests as self-hatred will flare outwards, which is rlly cool and awesome /sarc.
> 
> Listen, part of mental illness is convincing you that it’s just Part of you. That you will fail each time you attempt to wrench its control of you away from it. And this particularly feels awful when you can sense each of your failures — when you know the baseline treatment for mood disorders is getting enough sleep and you still stay awake all night for no reason, when you know you should reach out to your friends and stop ignoring their texts but continue to do so, when you know you should be honest with your therapist instead of trying to mold your personality into someone you think they’d like best during therapy sessions instead of allowing yourself to be honest (which leads to you resenting them for not seeing through your farce when uh. U’ve brought this upon yourself).
> 
> Anyway, that’s a long way to say that I think the reason the series appealed to me so much as a kid was because in many ways, Artemis reads as having some Nebulous Brain Weirdness. And in a way that was relatable to me! I didn’t see myself in representations of depression where some waifish protagonist cried and secretly hated themselves but was still fairly functional socially and emotionally — but I did see myself in a character who was occasionally self-serving, who lashed out, who was bad at maintaining friendships. And despite all this, he was a character who still got to be loved by the people close to him. Like Dr. Po, I won’t play arm-chair diagnosis with him — I personally see my own experiences with depression in Artemis, but there are many readings of him as instead having various other types of mental illness. However, what I will say is that I find a lot of fan discussions on mental health and the series to be kind of therapeutic. Getting to see a part of yourself in a character you love feels like taking a step towards being able to see a better future for yourself, which feels nicer than throwing your hands up and deciding that maybe you’re destined to live life with a general feeling of apathy clouding your experiences.
> 
> k LIGHTER NOTE feel free to drop a prompt for a chap you'd maybe want to see in the future? Thank you to everyone who has stuck with the fic, and sorry for slow updates!


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